Fingers crossed, legs not.

That's been my motto since January 1st, the date my Hunky Husband and I officially started "trying." It's still my motto, but lately, I've uncrossed my legs for a lot more people than I ever would've imagined.

You may recognize me from that other blog I write for: The Walk-In Closet. My day job is as Redbook's beauty director—the best job a girly girl like me could ever ask for. Baby-making is my night job (and yeah, a lot of mornings, too).

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In a nutshell: I'm 39 years old, married for just over a year. I had some basic fertility tests—FSH and estriadol—once before we got married and once just after: the results were "normal." I've been veeeeeery careful about birth control all my life. Until we were married, I was on the pill and we used condoms. I went off the pill in September and we had condom-less, pill-less sex for the first time in January. I tried the "check your vaginal mucus" method that first month to try to figure out when I was ovulating, after which I said screw that, and bought myself some pee sticks. They weren't love at first squirt: I didn't know that the hormonal surge that the sticks detect typically happen in the afternoon; test first thing in the morning and you can miss it. But once I got the hang of it, I loved the smiley face that told me when it was time to get busy, and emailed Hunky every month with a photo like this one:

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Or this one:

Or this one:

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After our very first month trying, when we weren't pregnant (and I know, we don't get pregnant, I do—but the getting pregnant part is really a team effort), Hunky panicked. What's wrong? We're not using birth control, why aren't we pregnant? He was under the mistaken impression that it was that easy. He clearly paid way too much attention in health class. I did capitalize on his concern to encourage him to have a sperm analysis, which was normal. So we went about our business.

The conventional wisdom is if you don't get pregnant after trying for a year, you should seek a doctor's assistance. If you're 35 or older—hey, like me!—you should seek assistance after six months. During the pee stick confusion phase, Dr. Arthur Wisot, a close family friend who just happens to be one of the top fertility specialists in the country (you'll be hearing more from him in this blog), suggested I see a doctor to help me pinpoint when I was ovulating. (I'd see Dr. Wisot if he didn't live 3000 miles away in Calfornia!) So, after five months of trying, Hunky and I went to see Dr. D, a New York-based specialist recommended by Dr. W.

Over the next two months, I went through a gamut of tests: again, the FSH and estriadol (still normal, but higher—which you'd hope would mean better, but doesn't—than the last time); an internal exam (lookin' good), and a hysterosalpingogram, aka HSG, in which they inject dye up through your uterus and out your fallopian tubes to make sure there are no blockages (all clear!). The HSG has a cool side effect: it kinda clears away the cobwebs and enhances fertility for three cycles. So Dr. D gave use three more months to try on our own. We took four. Still nuthin'.

Which brings me to where we are today: In our very first month of assisted reproduction. Your eyes are probably burning from reading all this; I tell you what's going on now, next time.

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